Good Vibrations
by Oni Mathier
Summary: Late nights in the Ark can prove to be trying for Prowl, and on the rare occasion quite...interesting.


**Good Vibrations**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: Prowl, Jazz & Blaster

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Crack and silliness. Mentions of mechxmech relations, but nothing explicit.

Disclaimer: I do not own Prowl's sweet aft...er...I mean anything to do with Transformers. _Sorry, my brain to mouth filter is not working..._

* * *

There it was again!

A sound that was so low it barely could be heard by even the most exceptional pair of audios. It was something that on any given day Prowl could and would have normally ignored, especially with the precariously balanced tower of tablets front and center on his desk. Such a work challenge was one that the tactician enjoyed immensely and he eagerly awaited times such as these when his overdeveloped logic center was put to the test.

Today, however, it was not to be so. Whatever that noise was it was slowly, but surely driving him mad—eating away at his most vaunted self control. No more than a few lines into his current datapad he felt part of his processors stray once again towards trying to figure out what he was hearing and where it was originating from.

In truth, it wasn't the sound that was getting to him so much as the subtle vibration that ran as an undercurrent seemingly in conjunction with the sound. The second's broad sensor panels were specifically designed to gather and absorb data, from packets of information sent wirelessly to things like atmospheric readings and audio frequencies. As it was, they kept picking up the stray feedback-each time causing tingling chills to run along the edges of his delicate exostructure. The sensation was both distracting and disturbingly pleasant—a particular type of pleasant that the tactician did not regularly indulge in and had been avoiding for quite some time. That little fact probably did not help how receptive his sensors were being.

Flicking his door wings grumpily, the tactician attempted to shake off the slight electric charge that was building upon itself and subsequently him like some living organism. The stimuli was causing his entire electric field to react, becoming even more sensitive to his environment than usual. He could only be thankful that things were relatively calm about the Ark that particular day.

Gritting his denta, but refusing to allow himself to grind them in frustration, Prowl slapped the small pad in his servos down against the desk. The force behind that action was almost enough to break the screen, but the poor, much abused device endured with only a few tremors of complaint.

Staring at nothing for a few minutes the normally stoic mech attempted to ease both his frustrations and something else entirely (that would remain unnamed). Reigning in the first feeling (and firmly ignoring the second) Prowl vented, consciously unclenching his fists and blanking his mind. The meditation trick seemed to work and after a few minutes of no interruptions he cautiously picked up his tablet (shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow). When nothing further happened, he allowed himself to ease back into his chair and once again attempted to do his work.

Sadly, the universe just seemed to have it out for that datapad because half way through Prowl's perusal of its contents a particularly long tremor sounded. The tactician made a rather undignified noise (and we'll leave it at that) and said datapad went sailing into the wall directly across from the tactician's desk. Splinters of metal and shards of glass rained down like confetti and the door winged mech sharply stood up. Prowl hesitated all of a moment before deciding that he had enough and stormed out of the office—proud sensor panels pulled tautly backwards and practically vibrating with barely repressed electrical signals racing through his frame.

The remains of the noble data pad a sad sort of pile left behind.

* * *

Marching down the atomic tangerine halls of the Ark, mechs scattered before him like quail attempting to avoid a predator, practically throwing themselves through open doorways. Cliffjumper had the unfortunate luck of landing in the lap of a certain yellow Lamborghini. None of this concerned the tactician—he was hell-bent on finding the cause of his day's mental breakdown.

The black and white knew when he was going the right direction as the amplitude of the sound progressively increased. Optics almost Persian blue with the current running through his chassis, every node of Prowl's system felt raw and open. Panting heavily, he turned a corner and knew in his girders that he had reached the source of his problem. Even with the doors shut, the resulting vibrations were shaking his systems, affecting his very core.

Prowl made it no more than three steps into the recreation room before he was assaulted by a heady bass beat that reverberated throughout the entire expanse of open space. The drawn-out, low-pitched chord was enough to send his already over-stimulated frame into a right tizzy and the door winged mech had all of two seconds of clearly thinking "oh slag" before a charge washed over him stronger than any of the previous vibrations. The uncontrollable rush was pure ecstasy as it raced unimpeded through his systems. With an uncontrolled, unrestrained cry of pure release Prowl overloaded hard, knee joints quickly buckling under the dead weight of his suddenly offline frame and sending him straight to the unforgiving floor.

* * *

Compared to the previous pitch of noise in the recreation room, the ensuing silence was deafening. Jazz stood stock-still in the center of the room, optics overly wide behind his visor, mouth plates hanging loosely open in complete, dumbfounded shock at the face-planted mech before him. Hip plates still open and speakers out, he looked uncharacteristically completely out of his element and ridiculous, as well as seconds away from a processor glitch. Still in shock, Jazz turned his helm towards the only other occupant in the room who looked equally flummoxed.

"What the frag just happened?"

Blaster had yet to move his gaze away from his offline commander, but managed to mumble.

"No clue compadre, but I know what it sounded like."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

"Is he...okay?"

Finally unfrozen from his spot, the saboteur moved to check on his boss who had yet to move a molecule, his speakers back in their proper place. The few licks of blue electricity that still intermittently arced along the laid out black and white form caused the visored mech to hesitate before a determined look crossed his faceplates and he took the last couple of steps to Prowl's side. Kneeling he turned the tactician's helm slightly so he could make out the tactician's deep aspirations and save for a couple of smudges on a white cheek, the mech seemed fine. Sighing, Jazz rocked back onto his heels and regarded the offline form.

"So...I guess we should probably take him to Ratchet?"

Blaster looked dubiously at his friend. "What's with this "We" jive? Last I checked it wasn't my fault the mech's in stasis."

The last thing the orange Comms officer wanted to do was be caught dragging their unconscious second into the Hatchet's domain. He had seen the twins after such an occurrence before and had no desire to get his plating forcefully rearranged. Friend or not, he had basic survival instincts to answer to.

Sighing in resignation, Jazz hung his head before straightening up and rolling his shoulder plates. Blaster watched in bemusement, but made no move to help as the visored Third maneuvered the offline, door winged form into a manageable carry (quite difficult when you and the one that you are attempting to carry are roughly the same size). Throwing one last pitiful look the tape cassette's way, Jazz mumbled, "Wish me luck."

"See you on the other side!" Blaster called cheerfully after his retreating form. Not wishing to be anywhere near his friend the next couple of hours while at the same time wishing to bear witness to how the normally smooth talking bot was going to explain this to their sadistic CMO without burying himself in the process.

Strangely enough, that exact line of thought was running through the saboteur's processor as he lugged his commanding officer's frame down a blessedly empty hall.

* * *

_A/N: Just a quick, silly little piece. More than likely a one-shot...but who knows with how evil my bunnies are. Inspired by those gents who like to shake apart buildings with their car's crappy subwoofers. ;D_

_Please, oh please R&R and let me know what you think._


End file.
